One Quotable Phrase
by fadagaski
Summary: Call him selfish in his old age, but when Jim Kirk invites him on a whistlestop tour of Earth, Spock Prime can't help but say 'yes'. KiScon 2011 zine fic. nu!Kirk/Spock Prime pre-slash.


Title: One Quotable Phrase

Author: Allocin

Fandom: IStar Trek AOS/I

Wordcount: 5572

Rating: G

For: KiScon 2011 zine.

Keywords: Preslash, introspection

Pairing: Spock Prime/nu!Kirk (kind of), implied Spock Prime/Kirk Prime.

Disclaimer: No profit is made from this work of fiction and no infringement intended.

Summary: Call him selfish in his old age, but when Jim Kirk invites him on a whistlestop tour of Earth, Spock Prime can't help but say 'yes'.

Beta: Rhaegal, who is made of sunshine and flowers and awesome. Any mistakes remaining are purely my own.

Call him selfish in his old age, but when Jim Kirk of the bright blue eyes and the quicksilver smile invites him on a whistlestop sightseeing adventure of Earth, Spock can't help but say 'yes'. Earth is the only home he has left – in any universe – and Spock counts it a fortuitous second chance that he might get to see it in the company of his old friend.

With only a scant few months until repairs on the _Enterprise_ are complete, and even less time before Spock must assume his new mantle amongst the Vulcan survivors on their new homeworld, Jim doesn't plan an itinerary so much as show up at Spock's doorstep with biker-boots on and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He wears an easy grin.

"Ready to go?"

"I am."

"Alright then."

Jim's bike is a rental, some sleek black thing that purrs in idle and roars at full throttle. Spock is both bemused and not. His Jim was not one for bikes. They were too flash, too light. Ships were his thing, or else cars; antiques from before World War Three.

Still, with Jim handing over a helmet streaked with decorative fire, Spock can only put aside his musings and swing his leg over the bike behind Jim. It's decidedly uncomfortable, with not nearly enough space for a full-grown Vulcan – or any species, save perhaps the Ferengi – to perch. He places his hands carefully on Jim's hips and closes his mind to the discomfort of his body. Jim revs the engine and they're off.

Spock is wise enough to recognise the feeling bubbling within him as exhiliration, an emotion he has not experienced in decades. It courses through him and he lets it, feels it lift his spirit higher with every kilometre that skids beneath their wheels.

The sun zips overhead to drown in the Pacific Ocean. Jim rides south for hours without stopping, plowing into the indigo dark with single-minded focus. Spock remains quiet in the pillion position. He is content to watch the scenery pass, arid California brush along the old I5 climbing into the dry mountains rising like a knobbly spine down the length of the western seaboard.

They coast down the mountainside into the desert beyond, distant cities glittering like jewels on the flat plain. Jim weaves around slower aircars, but mostly the road is empty except the two of them pressed chest to back on the bike. When they turn off the highway to climb higher again, desert turning to reluctant woodland, all other traffic disappears.

It's very late when they finally, finally stop, in a tiny town whose name takes all the surprise out of their destination. Jim pulls the bike off the road at the sign for Grand Canyon Village and kills the engine. The hum of the road buzzes in Spock's legs, and it takes him two attempts to lever himself off the bike with considerably less grace than he mounted twelve hours prior. He feels old, older than he has since he arrived in this bizarre universe. His back aches, and his hips, and knees.

"You okay there?" Jim asks. Spock is gratified, at least a little, to see that even Jim is hunched over with sore muscles.

"I am well," Spock says. Very carefully, he flexes the tension out of his back, wincing at the pop and crack of his vertebrae. "Was there any particular reason for our haste?" Jim shrugs, a rustle of leather. His skin is lit in strange hues by the glare of neon light.

"Motel or tent?" he asks. Spock has not stayed in a tent since that one trip, he and Jim and Leonard McCoy and 'Row Your Boat' by the fire. He toys with the idea of camping with this Jim, but his old bones let out a chorus of protest. Jim, too, looks tired, and it's the familiar compunction to aid and assist his friend that makes Spock's decision.

"I would rest better in a bed," he says, because his Jim never liked to be coddled, and he has deduced the same aversion in this new Jim.

"I'll go get us a room then," Jim says. He rests the bike on its kickstand and jogs across the street to the motel, sign loudly claiming a VAC NCY.

Left alone in the dark chilled night, Spock takes a moment to reflect on the strange turns of his life. Twenty-four hours ago, whilst in discussion with the Vulcan elders, he received a surprising message on his comm from one Jim Kirk, inviting him on this impulsive trip. Twenty-three hours ago, he ended his discussion and agreed to Jim's proposal. Fourteen hours ago he packed a small bag of essentials. Twelve hours ago he climbed on the back of Jim's bike. Not once has he looked back.

It doesn't matter, so long as going forward feels right.

"Room six," Jim says, coming up beside the bike. He rocks it off the stand and pushes it towards the motel. Spock keeps pace, one ear alert for traffic that isn't likely to come at this time of night.

They leave the bike in the demarked space, over a large white '6' painted on the tarmac, and go inside. Spock is grateful for the sudden warmth. At this altitude it is cool, surprisingly so for summer in Arizona, and his Vulcan blood is thin with age. Jim cranks the heat up without asking. It clunks to rumbling life.

"I need a shower," Jim says, sniffing himself and grimacing. "D'you mind?"

"Not at all," Spock says, with a gesture to the bathroom. Jim disappears inside.

It's been a long day filled with hard travel, and Spock is weary. There's time enough for light meditation, and then sleep. He has never viewed the Grand Canyon in person before, and acknowledges the desire to see it with a clear and centred mind.

Sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room with eyes closed, Spock barely rises out of his light trance when Jim pads out of the en suite. His presence is soothing, his quiet movement about the room familiar background noise. When Spock leaves his meditative state, Jim is lying sideways in bed, sheets to his waist and hair darkly damp, watching Spock. He looks on the cusp of asking something, and Spock would welcome it, but all Jim says is,

"Do you want to see it at dawn?"

"I'm given to understand that it is a sight of great beauty," Spock says. He stands, conscious of his lack of fluidity, though not shamed by it. In minutes he, too, is under the covers. The heater is still pumping out warm air amidst a rattling cacophony.

In the dark, Spock finds himself listening to Jim's breathing. It has a whistling, restricted quality to it that his Jim's did not have. An odd thing to notice, Spock is sure, but it unbalances him on a level deeper than logic, and it takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

They wake simultaneously. Spock does not read too much into the fact, but it does comfort him nevertheless. It is still dark outside, the air damp and cold in Spock's lungs. Overhead, a patchwork of clouds blocks most of the stars, a restless wind hiding and revealing distant constellations at random.

"We'd better hurry if we want to snag a good spot," Jim murmurs, voice hushed outside the other darkened motel windows. Spock is puzzled, as the residents of the town all appear to be asleep in their homes, but he does not comment as Jim rocks the rental bike off its stand and wheels it in a tight arc to the road.

Once again pressed to Jim's back, Spock shivers against the sharp wind cutting through his many layers of clothing. He wishes for the gloves his Jim bought him once, long ago and a universe away, thick mittens with a sinfully soft inner lining. The sweater under his touch now is coarse and pilled with long wear, only slightly warmed by the skin beneath.

It's not long before they cross the park border. A burly guard with a thick beard and bags under his eyes barely looks at them as Jim swipes his ID card for entry. They ride on, towards the red glow limning the clouds ahead. There are a few vehicles parked at the visitor's centre, and Jim coasts into an empty space before killing the engine. The silence seems all the greater aferwards, in that strange dawn hush.

"This way," Jim murmurs.

"I shall follow."

The path weaves through the trees. Spock minds his step, but Jim leads him safely through to the other side.

In the dim light, it is at first difficult to see anything past the row of thin trees clinging tenuously to the side of the path. Then, as Spock's eyes adjust and the clouds part a little, he sees a distant wall of striated colour, pinks and browns and greys. He stops to focus more carefully, his eyesight struggling with depth perception over such a distance. And then it clicks, that what he is seeing is the opposite cliff face of the Grand Canyon.

Despite himself, despite all he has seen and done in his long years of travel across the galaxy, Spock feels his breath catch. The sheer scale of the chasm is utterly immense, his keen mind can barely grasp it. And in the growing light, it is very beautiful, the colours reminiscent of dawn in the high mountains on Vulcan.

Jim comes to stand next to him, craning into Spock's field of vision to catch the same view. "You didn't come here with your Jim?" he asks.

"My Jim," Spock says, with a small smile at the possessive pronoun, "visited a great many places with me, but this was not one." He observes the side of Jim's face, pale in the weak light. "I gather that you have?"

"Yeah, once," Jim says. He grins suddenly at Spock. "C'mon, I'll show you a good spot. You can see the whole valley lighting up."

The good spot is an outcrop of rock some twenty feet down from the path, and a further fifty feet from the main cliff. Spock would be quite content at the viewing platform he can see a little way up, despite the few tourists leaning against the safety barrier with cameras in hand. But Jim is already scrambling down, out of sight but still audible. Spock follows.

It is a good spot, as Jim said it would be. He's already sat on the hard ground, feet dangling over the lip of the outcrop without a thought to the hundreds of metres of empty air beneath the soles of his shoes. He thumps his heels against the rockface.

"Sun's coming up," he says, as Spock gingerly settles next to him. Between gaps in the cloud cover, golden light shines through, chasing away the shadows and the cold. Spock watches Sol ascend the sky, feels it warm his skin even as Jim sits next to him pulsing out his own peculiar heat, and breathes deep.

They sit for maybe an hour as the altitude chill burns off in the face of the desert sun. Spock basks in the peace for as long as he can ignore Jim's fidgeting, but eventually his companion stands. Somewhere a mile below them, the Colorado river snakes between pillars of rock.

"So!" Jim says, shattering the quiet calm. "Do you want to hike down? We could probably make it to the bottom if we pushed it."

"I fear that would be unwise," Spock says delicately. "I am not so young and spry as some." Jim scoffs, but doesn't argue.

"We could ride the shuttle. It takes the road all along the edge."

"That would be acceptable."

It's a pleasant way to spend the day. Jim procures snacks from the visitor's centre – Spock sticks to trailmix, picking out the chocolate so as to remain uncompromised – and they ride the shuttle from one end of the route to the other. The view is always spectacular, a myriad of colourful layers sometimes a mile away, sometimes much closer where the canyon narrows. Spock enjoys the thick dry heat at midday and the way it eases the stiffness from his muscles.

Most of all, though, Spock watches Jim.

The roadtrip was spontaneous – Jim told Spock that himself – and it was equally spur-of-the-moment to invite Spock. He has yet to divine why. Jim seems content enough to ride the shuttle. They make small talk about the history of the canyon, repairs on the _Enterprise_, the planet upon which the new Vulcan colony will be built. It's almost easy, except Spock can sense the undercurrent of tension. Casual conversation with this Jim takes effort, like speaking with a new acquaintance. It shouldn't surprise him. It doesn't – he is fully cognizant that this Jim is not his Jim – but Spock acknowledges the bitter tang of disappointment nevertheless.

At twilight, Spock follows Jim off the bus and down the side of the canyon once more, until they are perched back atop the outcrop from this morning. The sky overhead has cleared to a bright blue the same shade as this Jim's eyes, though in the west Sol tinges the horizon a Vulcan desert red. The canyon walls shimmer and bleed in the dying light.

"Jim," Spock says, as the last rays fade, leaving Venus alone glittering in the wavering atmosphere. Jim turns his head. There's a distant, polite curiosity on his face that stings Spock, just a little. "Why did you invite me here?" To his credit, Jim doesn't try to evade the question, or respond with a glib answer. Spock watches the tense lines of his mouth and waits.

"Well, Bones is off seeing family, and there's no way I'm going back to Iowa." His eyes flutter shut against a sudden blast of dusty wind. "Anyway," he says when it's passed, "I'm going into space for the next five years. Figured I'd better see what I can of Earth before I go. Y'know, just in case."

It's an answer, and yet not. Spock is no more enlightened as to why he was selected. But Jim is standing up again, that restless energy back under his skin, tan leached from him by the dark space overhead. "I'm starving," he says. "All that candy's making me sick."

They ride back to Grand Canyon Village, entering a little restaurant bedecked in stuffed creatures. Spock imagines his younger self would be nauseated by such décor. He isn't exactly sanguine about it himself. Jim frowns at the eagle frozen regal and proud in death by the entrance, then at Spock before leading them back out. There's a little shop further along the road, where they buy pre-packaged meals to take back to their room.

Jim puts on a movie, a spy thriller with an attractive Betazoid female in the lead. They eat in silence and go to bed the same. As the heater cranks to life again, Spock allows himself a moment of grief for a friend long gone, mourns the loss of that relationship. It hadn't always been easy, as willful as they both were, but even when they were at odds Spock knew what was going through Jim's mind.

In the other bed, Jim wheezes.

"We're going to the best city on Earth," Jim declares the next morning over breakfast. Spock glances up from his porridge, one eyebrow quirked.

"That descriptor does not narrow the list of possible destinations," he says with dry humour. Jim grins at him.

"Good food, good alcohol, lots of fun and exciting people doing fun and exciting things!" he says. Spock is none the wiser. Jim rolls his eyes. "New Orleans. That's where we're going next."

"Ah. The crescent city, in the state of Louisiana. A popular tourist destination," Spock says.

"It's awesome," Jim agrees. He's packing his bag with yesterday's shirt, to store in the bike for the long ride south-east.

"I don't believe you – the other you, that is –" Spock pauses at his inadvertent slip "– had any affinity or attachment to that city."

"I lived there for a bit," Jim says with a shrug. "It was a good place to get lost in."

He leaves before Spock can comment, and they hit the the road soon after. The sky is only just blushing with dawn light, clinging to the night's chill. Spock wraps in as many layers as he can. He can't excuse the sudden lump in his throat when Jim, returning from the motel reception, tosses a pair of gloves at him.

Two thousand five hundred kilometres stand between their current location and their destination. Spock swings his leg over the bike and doesn't mention that it would be far more simple and convenient if they transported to New Orleans directly. Though his bones ache at the mere thought of two days' hard travel astride the bike, Jim's words from the previous evening have struck a chord. Like Jim, Spock will be away from Earth for an indeterminate amount of time. Quite possibly, he might never return, and as Earth is the only home planet he has now, he feels a strange sort of obligation to see it as they drive through.

As before, Jim rides hard. They stop for lunch at midday, but apart from that the roar of the bike is the only noise in Spock's world, the only speech the conversation of wheels over tarmac.

High altitude desert turns into low altitude desert, variations of sand and sun, too yellow to remind Spock of Vulcan. They stop in a little motel outside Wichita Falls, eat in its greasy diner – a burger for Jim, pasta for Spock – and bid each other quiet "Good night"s before sleep.

Spock can feel the tension building in Jim's body, pressed tightly to his as it is, on the second leg of their journey. Were it his Jim, Spock would brush his fingers over bare skin to gain a sense of clarity, but he resists the impulse. It would be an unwanted intrusion here. He remembers their first and only mind-meld, on an iceball billions of miles away. Jim's mind was alien to him, filled with unfamiliar angles and shards. Even the first time Spock had melded with his Jim, it was an easy mingle of thoughts and sensations.

He has the distinct impression that nothing is easy with this Jim.

New Orleans is the antithesis of the Grand Canyon. It is hot and stifling, a sticky pervasive heat that worms under Spock's clothes. Sweat beads on the back of Jim's neck, and the tang of it is salty in Spock's nose.

The roads are a confusing twist and loop to Spock, but Jim seems to know where he's going. The bike follows the path of an ancient tram rattling along old steel rails, passing clapboard houses with rocking chairs on their porches.

It's like no city Spock has ever been to, on Earth or any other planet. Logic dictates that Spock make detailed observations of the city, its climate and its inhabitants before coming to an opinion. There is still history here, when so much of Earth is sparkling new, when Federation spaceships and colonies and allied planets are filled with novel technology and the urge to renew. Here, everything maintains that aged feel, grimy and damp and worn, pockmarked with scars from years gone by.

Despite the history, he does not think his Jim would have liked New Orleans. Spock finds a fascinating affinity as the bike bumps over potholes in the road, but Spock is a different person to the one that served with his Jim Kirk. His Jim admired great heroes of bygone eras, emulated powerful leaders and sought to learn the lessons of the past. New Orleans does not give the first impression – impulsive and illogical as it might be – of lessons, learnt or learning.

Jim pulls the bike to a halt in front of a small wooden B&B painted in a shade of dark red like dried human blood, frilled with skeletal railings. As the engine stutters to silence, thunder rumbles over head, and the sky opens. Spock is used to rain now, the frigid sting of a San Francisco downpour as familiar as the blistering heat of his homeworld, but New Orleans rain is different. It's warm, bathing his skin, almost too soft to notice.

"Shit, c'mon," Jim grunts, grabbing their bags and making a dash up the creaking stairs to the covered porch. Spock follows, though he is in no hurry. The novelty of such a storm is surprising to him. Like the city on which the rain falls, Spock has never experienced similar in all his long years of travel.

After shaking the worst of the water from his hair and skin and entering the B&B, Jim rents a twin room from the receptionist. It is on the top floor, which Spock's hips do not appreciate, but it commands an excellent view of the cityscape, the tallest buildings in the financial district blurry shadows through the rain and the streetcar rails rolling past in the middle of the road below.

"It'll probably rain like this on and off all night, if you wanna stay here," Jim says. Spock turns from his observations to watch as Jim shucks out of his t-shirt and jeans, both creased and dirty from the highway.

"You are not staying," Spock comments. Jim buckles his belt through a clean pair of jeans and pulls a spare tee over his head, heedless of the splotches of water that spread like dark stains across his shoulders and around the collar. His eyes are startlingly bright in the gloomy room.

"Hell no. This is like home turf. Old stomping grounds and all that." He grins. "A little rain can't keep me inside."

"Then I shall go with you," Spock says. It's forward, certainly, even rash. But his association with this Jim Kirk began with a wave of shock and a touch meant for lovers; forward is the only direction in which he can move.

Jim shrugs, slides his jacket over his arms. "Sure," he says, though it sounds a little strained. "Whatever you want."

They take the trolley seven blocks to the centre of the city where it curves around the river. The old French Quarter suffered significant damage during the last World War, and the subsequent floods before climate control was implemented, but it is still a marvel that draws so many visitors like moths to flame, despite the incessant rain.

Jim leads Spock from the main road into the tight grid of streets, packed with humans both old and young, and a not-insignificant number of other species Spock quickly discerns. The atmosphere is thick with more than just moisture. Spock has to work to block the smell, vomit and urine and sun-warmed garbage, as unusual and old-world as the city itself.

On the Rue du Bourbon – which of course brings the good Doctor McCoy to mind with a touch of fond emotion – most of the bars are already operating, doors wide open and music pouring out: some live bands, some recorded music, some alien, some human. Spock can feel an eyebrow lifting when they stroll past several strip clubs, and a sex shop advertising 'Free Cock Ring With Every Purchase'. His Jim might have blushed, or laughed a little awkwardly, but this Jim doesn't even seem to notice. His single-minded intensity takes them swiftly through the swelling crowd to Pat O'Brien's bar.

Jim stakes out a table just as its previous occupants are leaving. "Wait here," he tells Spock, voice raised over the music and the roar of conversation. As he meanders to the bar, Spock wonders if this Jim is aware of Vulcan immunity to alcohol, or the weakness to chocolate.

The absent question is answered when Jim returns with a tall glass of water, with a frilly orange umbrella listing over the edge. For himself, Jim has a cocktail that is frighteningly pink. Spock watches as he sucks half of it down through a translucent straw with apparent relish.

"I hope you're hungry, because I ordered food," he says as he settles in the seat opposite Spock.

It's difficult to make conversation in the oppressive noise of the bar. Spock watches Jim watching the bar patrons, his eyes narrow and shadowed, a look Spock knows well from difficult diplomatic situations, when the other side had something his Captain wanted and he was trying to divine the best method of acquiring it.

Food is red beans and rice. The flavour is intense, almost too much for Spock after so many years reacquainted with the delicate palate of traditional Vulcan dishes, but he has also been an Ambassador for many years, developing the useful ability to muscle through any number of awkward meals with inappropriate fare. After a few mouthfuls, the spicy burn mellows, and Spock can enjoy it in full.

Night falls, and the city awakens to dance in the balmy rain. Jim leads them back to the Rue du Bourbon. The press of scantily-clad, touch-happy and intoxicated beings is a trial on Spock's mental shields as he follows Jim, keeping his soaked cloak wrapped tight around him and his hands hidden in his sleeves. Even so, he cannot help but sense the buzz of the crowd, the joy for life and the willful abandon of selves. There are dark edges to this city, sharp corners and shards of glass, but it seems all washed away in the cleansing downpour.

And then Spock loses Jim. With the ebb and flow of the wet crowd, coupled with the pressure on his telepathic abilities, Spock is distracted and Jim is gone. There is absolutely no cause for alarm. This is not an alien planet. Jim knows this city, knows its quirks and its people. The chances of harm befalling him are slim. Logically, Spock knows this.

Doesn't stop that habitual, split-second of panic because Jim is gone – GONE, lost and alone and in trouble and Spock has to find him save his Captain his greatest friend –

"Here! I got you some too!" Jim appears seemingly out of nowhere, grinning from ear to ear. There are a dozen beaded necklaces hanging around his neck in a rainbow of metallic colours, with a half dozen more clutched in his hand. Spock is still trying to work through his brief emotional moment when Jim steps closer, reaching up to loop the beads over his head. His fingers brush Spock's cheek, just a tingle of warmth, but it's enough. Connections open like floodgates, empty riverbeds suddenly spilling over with thoughts and feelings that spark like electric currents between them.

Spock gets a brief bombardment of Jim, too much and not enough, confusion and lust and anger and joy and sorrow all rolled together into a knot that pulses at the heart of Jim, achingly familiar and yet utterly different. It's as if the universe took the same basic building blocks of one man and stacked them in a brand new order, infinitely diverse carbon chains the difference between diamonds and carbon fibre and raw, elemental coal.

Jim pinwheels backwards with that same breathlessness as on Delta Vega. Spock's still reeling when Jim turns tail and runs, gobbled up by the rain-damp, partying crowd.

Dawn is a washed out affair. Spock watches from the window as the clouds break up, blown away by a fresh breeze from the Gulf, allowing the sun to pierce the sky in pale shades of blue and gold. A few early risers weave and leap between vast puddles on their morning runs, but Jim is not among them.

Jim did not come back last night.

Spock's comm trills once for an incoming text-only message. 'An urgent situation regarding the colony requires your immediate presence. Sarek.' Spock sends a brief reply stating that he will be with them by the day's end. His bag is already packed. He is only waiting for Jim.

As if summoned, the man in question walks through the door. They eye each other across the room, weighing and measuring and checking for hurt. Finding none, Jim heaves a small sigh and closes the door. His clothing is soaked, dripping onto the carpet, and his biker-boots squelch when he walks to stand at Spock's side. Spock expects him to smell of alcohol, or of sex, blood, some combination of the three, but he mostly smells of rain and wet leather, and a little of the miasma of the Rue du Bourbon.

"I wanted to get to know you," Jim says, without any preamble or forewarning. Spock tilts his head to indicate that he is listening. "I – On Delta Vega. With the mind-meld. I learned a lot about you, really quickly, and then shit happened and I never really got the chance to process it until now. And I just thought – I dunno." He sighs, a deep puff of breath that fogs against the window pane.

"I owe you an apology," Spock murmurs. He cuts off Jim's protest. "My intention was only to inform you of Nero's plan. I had not foreseen any further consequences to my actions, though you have suffered them."

"I wouldn't say 'suffered'," Jim counters. His brows are drawn close over his eyes. "It's just – confusing."

They stand in silence, watching the first aircars glide quietly past, followed by the rattle and bang of the streetcar. Spock's thoughts circle around ideas of change and continuity and connections rekindled.

It is time for him to go.

"My father has requested that I return to San Francisco. There is an urgent matter that requires my attendance."

Jim nods as if expecting it. "I'll give you a ride to Louis Armstrong."

It's a matter of minutes for Jim to pack, and they vacate the building with as much discretion as they entered. Jim rocks the bike off its stand and angles it towards the road. Spock swings his leg over the back and settles behind Jim, hands on his hips covered by the wet, clinging t-shirt.

It's a new familiarity when the engine growls to life beneath him, the vibration buzzing through all his limbs. Jim pulls down his visor and coasts onto the shiny tarmac, weaving around ponds where potholes used to be. Where their journey from California had been fast and unforgiving, Jim now seems content to take his time. Spock can't say that he minds. The logical fallacies of humans are something with which he is well acquainted.

"I wanted to show you more of Earth," Jim says with a frown when they are standing in the line for a transport to San Francisco. "I wanted to see more of Earth myself. Australia. Japan. Egypt."

"Jim," Spock says softly. He catches Jim's blue eyes and holds them. "Before this week I had never ridden on the back of a motorcycle. I had never seen the sun rise over the Grand Canyon, nor eaten in a traditional diner in Texas, nor witnessed the living history of New Orleans. I am gratified to have experienced these things with you." Jim blushes, light pink under the bronze of his tan.

"Me too," he mutters.

Spock shows his ID card to the hostess checking him onto the transport. Jim has elected to stay, claiming the bike as a reason, though Spock is reasonably sure the rental does not need to be driven back in person. He does not raise the point with Jim though. His Jim, he might have argued in the name of logic just for the thrill of verbal foreplay, but this Jim. This new and fragile Jim. They are not the same person; similar facets meshed together to create a different whole.

He turns to Jim and lifts his hand in the ta'al. "Live long and prosper," he says, and means every word. Jim copies his motion, and then he reaches two fingers out to brush against Spock's lowering hand.

Sparks tingle up Spock's arm, sensations of Jim singing in his nerves and through his marrow and under his skin. His heart beats to the thud of Jim Jim Jim.

Wide eyes meet his, thin blue iris around a blown black pupil. As they disconnect, Spock receives a last fleeting thought from Jim's mind to his own, more imprint than coherent idea. This feeling that Jim has is not his own, but he _wants_ it, _yearns_ for it with a strength of passion that is surprising. Spock's love for his Jim has transcended the universe, transcended death, to lodge within the young heart of a man who is almost – but not quite – Spock's Jim. If he stays, there's a chance Spock could capture something of what was; there's a chance Jim might have what he knows his counterpart had, a universe away.

An old Spock and a new Jim in a different combination, because full steam ahead is the only way either of them can fly. But it wouldn't be the same. Not quite.

Jim steps back, tucks his hands into his damp jeans. "I'll be seeing ya," he says, and grins.


End file.
